


Scotch and Elvis

by LadyChi



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-08
Updated: 2010-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-25 18:57:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyChi/pseuds/LadyChi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My post 100th-episode fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scotch and Elvis

  


  
_Like a river flows surely to the sea  
Darling, so it goes...  
Some things...  
are meant to be._   


She says “I can't.”

He cries.

She cries.

She folds herself into him, the way she always has done. Head on his shoulder, they walk to his car and they don't speak.

It's better if they don't speak.

**

In her apartment, she opens a bottle of Scotch. The sound of the glass hitting the counter reminds her of Booth. The smell of it reminds her of him – the way, after they've shared a glass, the bourbon clings to his breath and his hands and his jacket.

She can't stand the thought of it. She puts it away with snickerdoodles and Christmas cards and gifts.

**

Angela comes over and together, they lay on her bed. Brennan doesn't know if she can handle this – if she can handle the sympathy in Angela's eyes, but her friend somehow knows. They intertwine hands, and Brennan presses a palm to her own chest.

“It burns.” She says it simply, but somehow it makes Angela cry. Brennan turns away from her.

“Oh, sweetie. It's going to burn for a while.” Angela pushes a lock of hair away from Brennan's face. “I'm sorry.”

Brennan misses her mother.

**

It's sick, how easily they go back to this. Something's got to be wrong with them. She's not an expert in people, but she knows people don't just come _back_ from a conversation like they had, but there's Booth. Flipping that stupid poker chip and giving her what Max calls a “shit-eater grin” (whatever that means) and reassuring her that nothing's changed.

On the surface, nothing does.

Underneath, though. Everything's different.

**

She's irrationally irritated with Sweets. True, if he hadn't pushed, then they might still be Booth and Brennan. They might still be in lock-step with everything in their lives. They might still be...

Stagnant.

Unchanging.

Reliable.

Her own words come back to haunt her.

 _Everything changes, Booth._

**

“Sweets says that I'm incapable of having a lasting relationship because you and Mom left.”

“Hello to you, too, sweetie.”

“I don't believe in psychology.”

“I know.”

“I just want you to know – if that's true, then I am very, very upset with you. I – I think I might even hate you.”

“Tempe.”

“It's not rational. I just wanted to tell you.”

**

People don't mope like this over a relationship they didn't have. They don't mourn their work partners like they would mourn a missing limb. But then, she's never really been a “people”. She's never functioned in that way. She's never been normal. Maybe this is just one more way she can't figure out how to function like a _real_ woman.

She's smart, sexually attractive, brilliant, accomplished, successful...

But there's some part of her that's not there. Some part of her that doesn't understand retail therapy and shoe shopping and biological clocks and the benefits of Tide versus Gain. Is that the stuff that she's supposed to care about? Is that the stuff that makes a woman – a woman? How does she get there? How does she get to be the kind of person she wants for Booth?

She can't bend herself into that shape. She was right. Part of her is dead. Death is permanent.

**

Andrew is genuinely funny. She'd forgotten that. She's always found humor to be extremely attractive in a man.

(Always. Five years is always.)

He picks good wine at the meal, he's on-point with her about most political issues, he seems to enjoy the way she looks in her little black dress.

Someday, though. He's going to want more. They always want more.

**

“Sweetie.”

“Kind of busy here, Ange.”

“I'm going to go get a drink. Want to come?”

“Well? Sweetie. You've been down here for hours.”

“I know. I'm just... thinking about it.”

“Okay, put down the skull. Forget the drink. Let's go get a bottle of wine and a box of chocolates.”

“Is that how you're supposed to handle a relationship ending? Is that how... is that how it's done?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes you torch his apartment and microwave his CDs.”

“Why? That seems socially unacceptable.”

“It was a joke, hon. C'mon. Wine and chocolates.”

“I'm not upset about Andrew.”

“Of course you're not, sweetie. Everyone knows that.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

**

She has a dream.

She dreams, just like everyone else. That part of her isn't dead.

There's a woman at the piano, with curly black hair, who soulfully sings into a microphone. Brennan knows she should know who it is, but she's distracted by...

The touch of his hand on the small of her back. The scent of bourbon on his breath, there but not overpowering. The cool of the polyester in his suit. The press of his belt buckle against her stomach. The strength of his hands. Arms. Shoulders. Jawline.

He's not a good dancer. Not in real life. Here, though. He's skillful, just as she is. They move with the practice and ease of two people who know each other in every way there is to know someone else. He whirls her around until she's dizzy but she doesn't let go because she trusts him. She trusts him not to let her fall.

When he lets her go – it's not hitting the ground that really hurts.

**

“What is this?”

“What is what? Bones, you've got to be more specific, you know that, right?”

“This music.”

“Elvis, Bones. Elvis Presley. 'I'm all shook up, uh uh uh'. You know?”

“Right. That's not this song, though.”

“No. It's not.”

“It's a nice thought.”

“What?”

“This song... it's a nice thought.”

“It's more than a thought, Bones. It's a truth.”

The door slams when he walks out.

**

“I'm sorry.”

“Why?”

“Because you've mad at me. I – I know I let you down, I just...”

“Bones, no. It takes two to tango. I'm not mad. I'm upset.”

“That's like mad.”

“No, Bones. It's really not. If I'm mad at anyone, I'm mad at myself.”

“I wish you...”

“Tell you what, Bones. Let's just put it down for now, okay? Let's just walk away and put it down. Do that for me.”

Brennan feels small, in a way she hasn't felt small in a very, very long time.

**

She watches him with other women. She watches him kiss their hands and their cheeks and their lips and watches his nose linger in their hair.

Angela told her that eventually the pain would go numb.

It vibrates in her very core.

It... vibrates. Like someone stuck a knife in her spinal cord.

**

When he's finally free again, she tries to work up the courage. She tries to tell him that this time she's ready. She _wants_ to be that person. She wants to be Temperance Brennan, _woman_ , scientist, author. She wants his nose to linger in her hair. She wants to hold his hand and lean into his shoulder.

She slides into the barstool next to him and orders a glass of Scotch.


End file.
